Broken
by RenShep
Summary: Nathaniel Howe, bent on revenge, slips into the Warden Commander's room in order to rectify the perceived wrong against his father. Angry, hate-fueled, desperate sex occurs between two broken people.


**A/N : Warning for Dub-Con (but only kind of), a bloody kiss (or two), and a massive amount of self-indulgent angst. Seriously, though, the angst is so overblown it's ridiculous. Part of a larger work that I abandoned, additional chapters might be added in the near future.  
**

Elissa Cousland was tired. She was tired of running and tired of fighting and tired of the wrenching sadness which had settled over her soul. The intruder faced her, shoulders bowed, face half hidden in shadow. He'd come to kill her, she knew, but she did not think he would make her death quick. No, he wanted to hurt her. His savage visage, the cold glint of his eyes and curl of his lip, the way his body seemed posed to spring into movement, it sent a shiver of... _something_ through her.

_This,_ she thought, _is a dangerous man._

Though she did not fear death, she feared him, or more accurately, her reaction to him.

"You still want to kill me Howe?" She faced him fully and nodded towards her weapon rack. "Take one of my blades and slit my throat. I won't try to stop you. Make it quick or make it painful, I could care less. But for the love of the Maker just do it and be done with it."

When he made no move she strode over to the rack and removed her favorite dagger. She'd picked it off some corpse in Redcliff and had carried it with her for over two years now. She handed it to him hilt first and he hesitantly accepted the weapon. His brow was deeply creased and he was watching her warily, but made no move towards her.

"Are you waiting for a confession? I'll gladly give you one. I killed Rendon Howe. I stormed his home, _your_ home, and slew anything which stood in my path so I could cut him down. When I found him it was quick and clean _only_ because I didn't have time to make it linger. Had I the time I promise you I would have made that sick bastard suffer." She felt her mouth pull into a sneer, "I have many regrets, more than I ever imagined possible, but killing your father will _never_ be one of them."

She watched the angry flush bloom across his pale face, watched his flint grey eyes harden further beneath his lowered brows. His hand tightened around the hilt of the weapon she'd forced in his hand and his lips pulled back in a snarl. She felt another shiver race down her spine.

He reminded her of a great cat, much like she had seen once as a child when visiting Denerim for a young Cailan's name day feast. A menagerie had been set up, filled with wondrous creatures from around Thedas of all shapes in sizes. She had been fascinated by one in particular. The beast had come from Seheron, she had been told, a massive predator, dark and sleek and dangerously beautiful.

Eyes locked with his she raised her chin to expose the line of her neck. Daring him. When he still didn't move she pressed, taunting, "Or would you prefer that I turn so you can stab me in the back and prove yourself to be your father's son?"

With growl he leapt, gripping her by the neck with his empty hand and slamming her against the wall hard enough to cause her to see stars. After a bare flicker of pain her face returned to its impassive state, her hands still at her sides. She forced herself to stay relaxed as he began to squeeze, but even she couldn't prevent her strangled gasp when the room began turning black.

She fell to the floor in a heap, head down, drawing a wheezing breath through her bruised throat.

He stood above her and demanded, "Why!?"

She looked up at him where she lay sprawled, breathing raggedly; her voice was rough when she spoke, which served to enhance the raw emotion there, "Perhaps it will be the end of it."

"The end of what?" He snarled, pacing back and forth, further reminding her of that beautiful caged animal.

"For nearly three years, since that night your father sent his men to slaughter my family," she spat, "I have known nothing but sorrow."

"The most celebrated woman in Ferelden-" he began angrily.

"-has _nothing_," she cut in bitterly. "I lost everything the night your father attacked Highever. _Everything. _The only reason I live today is because a Grey Warden took pity on me. And since then all I've known is sacrifice and pain and loss." She hissed. "Take my life if it pleases you, I've no use for it any longer. Perhaps you'll find more peace with my death than I found with your fathers."

"I despise you." he seethed

"You are not the first, but you could be the last." She nodded towards his hand. "Just one cut and it could be over."

He moved towards her so quickly she flinched. He pulled her to her feet and slammed her back against the wall, fisting his hand into her robe and pulling her face inches from his. "Fight me," he growled.

"No," she returned, staring at his mouth, watching it twist in anger.

She felt the tip of the blade pierce her robe, felt the cold steel rest against her breastbone. She looked up locked her eyes with his, cold and grey. She maintained a veneer of calm, truly, doing so was effortless. She should have died when the archdemon did, would have if that beautiful, brave fool Alistair not seen fit to sacrifice himself.

She was living on time she had never wished to borrow.

He lowered his face closer to hers; close enough for his long, distinctly Howe nose to brush hers. Gripping her by her shoulder he slammed her against the wall again. "Fight me," he demanded again, his voice like gravel.

She tipped her face up, running the edge of her nose against his. She could feel the whisper of his breath on her skin and closed the distance between them further, stopping only when her lips were a hairs breadth from his, "No."

He shifted, she felt the sting of the blade passing through her skin, felt the answering warm trickle of blood between her breasts, and the lightest pressure of his lips against hers. Her entire body shivered and her composure cracked for a brief second. She was not the only one affected. Something in his expression and in his stance changed, his posture becoming less hostile but somehow more dangerous.

The pressure of the blade lifted and she heard the hiss of fabric being cut. Cold air ghosted across her skin, her flesh pebbling in answer, her breath shallow. "Fight me," he demanded again, his voice low and rough.

Her only response was to lean forward the fraction of an inch to slide her mouth across his. He did not draw away, but neither did he encourage more contact, instead he stilled at the touch. She parted her lips and pressed them more firmly against his, allowing her tongue to trace the shape of his mouth.

She felt her robe being pushed aside, but did not release the contact between their mouths. His calloused fingers brushed against her flesh lightly, thumb grazing her nipple over and over until it was hard and aching, only to be pinched painfully between his thumb and forefinger, bringing forth a pained gasp from her.

She felt his answering grin against her lips and he gripped her breast, twisting and bruising her with his large hand before returning those calloused fingers to pinch her nipple until she whimpered. She tried to twist away but he slipped a leg between hers and locked their hips together, pinning her against the wall.

The dagger made quick work of her clothing, robe split from neck to hem; he pulled the two halves behind her shoulders, locking her arms at her sides with the sleeves. He leaned forward then, pressing the entire length of his body against hers. His armor was rough against the skin of her chest, but despite the heavy leather she could feel his cock, hard and thick against her belly.

He placed his fingertips against the base of her neck, eyes focused intently on that bit of skin. His fingers slid downward, light and feathery, until she felt a sudden sting, and realized he was running them over cut he'd made with the dagger. He raised his hand; two fingers coated in her blood, and touched them to her lips. Her tongue darted out to taste it, coppery and tainted.

He lowered his mouth to hers, insistent this time, suckling her bottom lip between his and laving the blood off with his tongue. She moaned; the sound was wanton, desperate and full of need. He pulled back, scowling at her.

"You want this," he growled, more statement than question.

"Yes," she answered.

He tilted his head, studying her. "You're playing the whore," he said, "You think this will convince me to spare your life."

"I don't care if you do," she answered honestly. "I want this."

"Why?"

_I have been empty inside since the archdemon fell, since Alistail made his foolish choice I have felt..._

"I have felt nothing for so long, too long, and yet you _terrify _me," she responded.

His eyes were half lidded, his expression sheltered. He bowed down; pressing his mouth against her chest, the sting of his tongue against her wound was strangely pleasurable. She felt the pressure of his hand sliding down her belly, beneath her smalls, and bucked her hips against him when he slipped his fingers between her folds.

He raised himself, his eyes hard and steely with anger, lips stained with her blood. "You're soaked," he growled at her, "are you so desperate for my cock, whore?" One of his long, blunt fingers slid easily inside of her, she could feel her walls attempting to grip him, but it was not near enough to satisfy.

_More, _she thought, shuddering. "Yes," she breathed.

A second finger joined the first, he was watching her intently, his expression angry and curious at once. She arched against his hand, her body begging for more, her lips parted with want. Perhaps he was right, perhaps she was no better than a whore, but the pleasure and pain and fear of this man made her feel _alive_. His thumb brushed across her swollen clit and her body clenched against his hand, a whine catching in her throat. His lips met hers again, firm, smooth and slick with her blood, she opened her mouth and allowed him to plunder hers with his tongue.

His fingers in her curled and prodded, finding the spots which made her body tighten and flex and writhe, his thumb occasionally brushing against the nub of her clit teasingly, forcing more of those wanton, desperate sounds from her throat. His lips brushed against her ear, "Is this how you convinced Maric's bastard to take the final blow for you? Did you play the whore for him, too?"

She stiffened; his fingers were no longer a pleasure, but an invasion, his large, rangy body no longer an anchor but a trap. She twisted, trying to pull away, but had no room to maneuver. His eyes narrowed with amusement at her struggle. She allowed the rage she felt to surface, whipping her head forward until her forehead slammed against his mouth, splitting his lip.

"You have no right to speak of him!" she hissed.

He turned his head to spit the blood from his mouth. "So you do have a weakness, _Commander. _ I find it hard to imagine Bryce Cousland's daughter spreading herself for a bastard, royal or not."

"Alistair was the most honorable man I have ever known, you are unfit to even speak his name."

He pinched her clit cruelly, she gasped in pain, "And yet you're wet and eager for me. Do I remind you of him, then?"

"You could never hope to compare to him, _Howe_."

"Your body disagrees," he mocked and slipped his thumb over her clit as if to prove a point. Again, her hips bucked, pressing her against his hand. An answering grin crawled over his features, his lip splitting further, a trail of crimson trailing down his chin. She raised herself as much as possible and sucked his lip into her mouth, the taint in his blood less evident than it had been in hers. She licked at his lip, tonguing where it had split open, reveling in it.

He jerked back with a snarl and pulled her from the wall, leading her over to the heavy oak desk. Gripping her he bent her over, her face slamming against the wood, and twisted her arms behind her back, pinning her there.

It was pretense only that she would fight him, that he had to restrain her. He knew it as well as she did, he must, but she was grateful for it. It would not do to cling to him, to urge him on with her hands and mouth. No, this is what she wanted, the act of rape, even if it was only an act. _Yes_, she thought to herself, _let him excise his demons out on my body, let him take what he wants as long as he gives me what I need._

And give, he did.

She felt his broad cockhead pressing at her entrance, spreading her open, slipping easily through her slick. He did not enter her slowly, he did not take time to prepare her or give himself time to savor, but thrust forward sharply. She cried out at the sudden intrusion, the sting of her body stretching to accommodate his girth, the overwhelming fullness she had gone too long without. He pulled back to thrust forward just as brutally, setting a savage rhythm.

She could hardly draw breath between the force of his thrusts and the strength of his arms holding her in place. Part of her wished she was on her back, so she could see the feral line of his features, the twist of his mouth and those cold grey eyes. But part of her thought nothing could be more perfect than this, him taking from her, caring nothing for her wants or her comfort.

His knee came in contact with hers, forcing her to open wider, she complied, her back arching, thrusting her rear towards him as her body chased a peak it could not quite reach. Deeper and harder he went, hitting her womb with such force she could not tell if it was pleasure or pain, the slap of his heavy sack against her outer lips causing her to whine with need. She could hear nothing save his grunts, his labored breathing, and his voice as he belittled her.

"Highever whore," he ground out between thrusts.

Perhaps she was, perhaps this is all she was good for any more.

One of his hands reached beneath them, fingers wet with her brushing against her clit, causing her body to buck and struggle and seek out more contact. He laughed at her, "Cousland cunt," he growled, "How full of shame would your parents be to know that you are desperate for Howe cock."

She did not respond though she had an answer. They would be horrified that their daughter would so willingly submit to their murderer's son, would submit to this degradation at his hands. But they were dead, everything she loved was dead and gone, and Howe was making her _feel _again. His agile fingers plucked and pinched and tormented her clit, bringing her to the edge and pulling her back repeatedly. Too much and not enough all at once.

"Please," she whined.

He laughed behind her, the sound deep and cruel, "Beg for me then, Cousland whore." He released his grip on her arms though she did not move to brace herself or move away. Digging his fingers cruelly into her hips he increased his pace, slamming home with such force the heavy desk screeched across the floorboards. She could feel it, so close and moving closer and closer with each savage thrust, finally crying out as her body shattered into a thousand pieces under him.

He leaned forward, body covering hers as his teeth bit painfully into the skin between neck and shoulder, her flesh muffling the sound of his answering roar. Still inside her she could feel each twitch of his cock, each jet of seed filling her.

He lay over her, releasing his painful grip on her skin and breathing heavily. The leather of his armor sliding across her sweat slick skin with each inhale. He softened inside her, slipping free after a few minutes, and she felt the answering drip of his seed running down her thighs. She did not move immediately when he righted himself, though he no longer held her down, or even touched her.

When she did right herself he was tucking himself back into his breeches and watching her closely, his expression guarded.

"Will you kill me now?" she asked, not moving to cover her nudity with the ruined robe.

"No," he said, his voice sounding tired. Indeed, he appeared every bit as exhausted as she felt.

"Will you stay with the wardens?" she asked, almost fearing his answer.

"For now," he responded noncommittally.

She nodded once.

"Will you have me again?" She pressed, curious.

"Yes," he said; his voice once again a growl.

_Good_. She nodded one more_._

As silently as he had entered he let himself out, not taking his eyes from her until the door clicked shut behind him.


End file.
